Sins of the Storm by Jenna Mills

chase—or dead end.
    Or maybe it was something he’d died to protect. “This isn’t yours to destroy, Jack. It’s mine. My family’s.”
    His smile was slow, insolent. “Sorry, cher. What it is is evidence.”
    Ignoring his smugness, she ran her finger along a line that seemed to indicate a break between land and water. The map was a close-up. All she had to do was figure out the broader location—an area bordered by a beach?—and she could see for herself.
    “Then you better take good care of it, Sheriff,” she said with her best Southern belle smile. “It sure would be a shame if anything happened to it on your watch.”
    The taunt registered in the dark glitter of his eyes. “Trust me, cher. ” Not Cami. Not ’tite chat. “Nothing’s going to happen on my watch.”
     
    He watched her. She could feel him even though the deputy did his best to be inconspicuous. He was just a kid who wore jeans and a T-shirt and pretended to work under the hood of a rusted pickup. But she’d seen him at the accident scene. He’d been with Jack. He’d had a gun.
    Now with a wrench in his hand, he tapped his foot to the beat of a jangly zydeco tune.
    Camille could only imagine what it was Jack expected her to do. She glanced at the file on the hotel bed, then again toward the window, and finally she saw the car. Sleek and black, the convertible glided into the parking lot and straight into a spot outside her door. Quickly she grabbed her notebook and her purse, then slipped into the warm blast of late afternoon.
    It was like stepping into a sauna.
    The deputy looked up, and though Camille knew better, knew it was best to ignore him, pretend she had no idea he was there, she tossed him a wink.
    His flush almost made her laugh.
    At the car, one darkly tinted window slowly lowered. “Ready?”
    “As rain,” Camille said, opening the passenger door and slipping inside.
    Her cousin’s smile, wide, conspiratorial, almost blinded her. “Thought I’d wait to lower the top until we were out of here.”
    “He’ll get the plates,” Camille pointed out.
    Saura laughed. “But until then he’ll sweat a little.” She zipped the car backward, then slid into Drive and sped forward, gunning the engine as they turned onto the highway.
    And for the first time since she’d returned to Bayou d’Espere, Camille could breathe. She rolled down the window and welcomed the slap of warm air as the outskirts of town raced by in a blur.
    “That bad?” Saura asked.
    Camille lifted her hand to the open window. “He knows,” she said. “He knows there’s something I haven’t told him.”
    “Then maybe you should.”
    “Not yet.” Not until the last possible moment. Doors would open for Camille Fontenot…doors that Jack himself would slam and lock for true crime writer Cameron Monroe. “Do you have it?”
    Saura whipped the car around a curve. “In the backseat.”
    Camille glanced back, saw the laptop—and the portable printer. “You’re a goddess,” she said, and when Saura shot her one of those knowing smiles, something inside of Camille slipped quietly into place.
    Older by a few years, Saura had always been more like a sister than a cousin. That was the way of it in big families. You had your siblings, but the bonds didn’t stop there. You had cousins…and Camille had had Saura.
    And she’d never forget the shock of opening her front door six weeks before and finding Saura. She’d tracked Camille down, smiled a quirky little smile, then started to cry. Saura, her tough, gutsy cousin, had cried.
    Time had plowed forward, but Saura still wore cutoff shorts that showed off her killer legs, and she still wore her long dark hair in a single braid down her back. But now a woman’s wisdom shone in her dark eyes, a woman’s loss—and a woman’s love.
    The rush of emotion surprised Camille. She’d gotten into the car that long-ago summer afternoon of her own volition, that was true. And when she’d reached New Orleans,